


My Whole Life Too

by novelogical (writingmonsters)



Series: I Can't Help It (Falling In Love With You) [2]
Category: Burnt (2015)
Genre: Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Homophobia, Kaitlin - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Michel - Freeform, Until it isn't, Weddings, helene - Freeform, max - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 19:17:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18125378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/pseuds/novelogical
Summary: “When he wrote the contracts, he did so in such a way that I cannot oversee the Langham’s functioning unless certain conditions are met.”Still, he cannot bring himself to say it.There is so much concern in Adam’s pale blue eyes, so much worry over Little Tony Balerdi. It is a strange thing to see. “And those conditions are…?”“A legally-binding marriage.” His voice breaks, cracking across the syllables -- mortified and sick with grief. “His way of putting me in my place, you see.”





	My Whole Life Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misanthropiclycanthrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/gifts).



The last of the plates have been scrubbed and stowed away, the kitchen laid to rest for the night, and Adam is undeniably a success. Come tomorrow, the  _ Evening Standard _ will boast glowing reviews of the Langham and -- if Adam has played his cards right -- the restaurant will have a new executive chef.

He finds Tony in the dimly-lit dining room, a half-shadow installed at one of the round tables and sorting through the day’s accounts. 

At the sound of the quiet footfalls on the carpeting, Tony has to brace himself, steel his worn-thin nerves against an onslaught of  _ Adam Jones _ . And, circling the table, Adam sees the way he shrinks, hunching into himself.

This is not the Tony Balerdi he knew five years ago.

“I want to make amends,” Adam tells him, leaning across the table. And he means it. “For Paris.”

Reluctant, Tony sighs. Tosses aside the incomprehensible pile of paperwork and lifts his dark eyes to Adam. “So I hand my restaurant over to you and it's you doing me a favor?”

“If your father didn’t own this place, you'd have been fired years ago.”

Tony cringes.

“C’mon, Tony.” Mistaking the twinge of anguish in Tony’s face for embarrassment, Adam throws himself into the chair across from him, elbows on the table. “You're the best maitre d’ in Europe. My kitchen? Is gonna be the best in the world.” His voice is soft, imploring. His eyes so very, very blue. “Talk to your father.”

“ _ Tch _ .” Tony shakes his head, folds his arms around himself -- unable to look Adam in the eye. “You are two months too late for that. My father is dead.”

Adam stills. Softens. “Tony --”

“Don't.” He waves away the apologies and platitudes with the familiar knot of grief and bitter frustration lodged at the base of his throat. His father is dead. Adam is alive. After five years. After all the rumors -- a stabbing in Amsterdam, an overdose in New York. “Please.”

There is a tightness at the corners of his eyes, a painful twist to the line of his mouth. Adam sits back, studying Tony silently.

“I am  _ tired _ , Adam.” The admission wrenches itself from deep within Tony’s chest, cracked and fragile at the edges. There is not much more Tony can take tonight.

“Okay.” Something strangely tender swells inside Adam at the sight of him, raw and wounded and more vulnerable than he remembers. 

He should chafe at it -- this new delay, his momentum stymied -- but it has always been Tony’s way to slow Adam down, to steady him. Something about the little maitre d’ calms the screaming of Adam’s nerves. 

“Okay,” he says again and stands to go. Tony -- preoccupied, knuckles white with the effort to hold himself together -- barely seems to realize.

And then, softly: “Adam.”

He hesitates.

Tony shifts, searching in his pocket for the room key. “Suite 659 -- it is still unoccupied. Unless you have found other accommodations?”

Thinking of David and Sara and their lumpy futon, Adam takes the key. “Thanks.”

He turns back once, in the deepest shadows of the dining room, to see Tony edged in golden lamplight and crumbling slowly, burying his face in his hands.

When Tony breaks, he does so quietly. A shuddering sigh, a burning behind his eyes. He is exhausted and angry and he cannot cope with all of this -- the miracle and the catastrophe that is Adam’s return, the Langham falling to pieces around him.

“ _ Papa _ ,” he implores the silence. “Please.”

Please, let things be different. Let the world have changed by morning.

But nothing changes -- Tony is left alone to drown.

He does not manage more than an hour or two, tossing and turning in his bed. It is impossible to sleep anymore. Which is how he finds himself mounting the Langham’s steps before the sun has barely broken over the horizon, the sky turning to hazy lilac when he stands outside suite 659 and forces himself to knock.

Adam has never broken from the old routine -- is still an early riser -- and the open door finds him half-dressed and golden, still damp from the shower. “Hey.” he looks Tony up and down, bemused.

The sight of him shakes Tony to his core. Still gorgeous. Still here -- not a dream after all. And he hates it, hates the wretched fragile feelings stirred up behind his ribs. Even now, even after everything, he still loves Adam Jones.

It takes Tony a moment to remember how to form words. “Coffee?”

Adam pauses long enough that Tony is sure he will refuse, must think Tony has lost his mind. But then he purses his lips, nodding, and says “yeah, sure -- why not?”

And Adam Jones may be a world-class chef, but Tony Balerdi is a maitre d’, a sommelier, and -- probably, in a former life -- a damn good barista. In the small back office, they face one another across the desk and nurse twin cups of smooth, high-caffeine robusta; Tony’s pale and thick with creamer, Adam’s dark as tar.

Tony busies his hands with the coffee service, pouring and stirring, unsure how he is supposed to begin and acutely aware of Adam’s crystal-pale eyes taking in every inch of him. Adam is surprised all over again to see just how haggard Tony looks in the light. Wan-faced and weary-eyed and missing some of fierce, energetic brightness.

“After Paris…” Tony sips his coffee, risking an uncertain glance at Adam through his eyelashes. “Where did you go?”

Adam sits back, curls his fingers around the white china coffee cup. “New Orleans. Got my head on straight, did my penance and shucked a million oysters.”

Tony is not quite sure how shucking oysters can equate to a proper penance done, but… there is no denying, Adam looks good. Healthy and whole and beautiful. Oyster shucking has clearly done him a world of good.

“And now you are here,” Tony muses, demure. “And you have some master plan to take over my restaurant.”

Adam has to smile, hearing the tinge of skepticism in his voice. “Yeah.”

“How am I supposed to trust you?” Tony asks it of the surface of the desk, his voice frightfully small. 

“Look, I know I fucked up in Paris.” There is no more cockiness now, no more posturing -- this is Adam solemn and serious, his conviction intense. “But I've been sober two years, two weeks, and six days. No drugs. No drinking. No women. You let me put together a team, you put me in that kitchen, and we're gonna get that third star.”

And Tony believes him.

“You have changed.” So much for the better, he thinks. 

Adam’s smile is fond, tinged with old sorrow. “So have you.”

But the change in Tony does not seem to be for the better -- he is quieter than Adam remembers, worn ragged and brittle with hurt.

Tony looks away.

“C’mon,” Adam coaxes, leaning to meet Tony across the desk. “You as maitre d’. Michel as my sous chef. Max is out of prison in a week -- together we’ll kick this arrogant city's ass.” He is all big ideas and brilliance and his fire will burn Tony to ashes. “We’ll cook like we did in the old days, back before we started warming up fish in little plastic bags.”

Into his half-empty coffee cup, Tony offers morosely “I am afraid it is not so simple.”

There is something in his voice that forces Adam to sit up and take notice -- to look more deeply at Tony Balerdi. It is more than just wariness, it is...

Hopeless.

“I… well.” Tony winces, unsure how to explain. How to put his wretched admission into words. “When my father died, the Langham holdings were transferred to my name, yes, but we are  _ floundering _ , Adam.”

“What are you talking about?”

He flushes, a hot shame that stings beneath his skin. “It’s stupid. My father -- you understand, he did not approve…” of the  _ queer _ . His only son. Tony swallows hard, forces the confession out. “When he wrote the contracts, he did so in such a way that I cannot oversee the Langham’s functioning unless certain conditions are met.”

Still, he cannot bring himself to say it.

There is so much concern in Adam’s pale blue eyes, so much worry over Little Tony Balerdi. It is a strange thing to see. “And those conditions are…?”

“A legally-binding marriage.” His voice breaks, cracking across the syllables -- mortified and sick with grief. “His way of putting me in my place, you see.”

Adam, stricken, puts two and two together, his voice soft. “Because you’re gay.”

Tony’s face is answer enough.

“But…” Adam has known something of cruel fathers and his heart breaks, horrified on Tony’s behalf. “Jesus, Tony, he can’t do that.”

The laugh that escapes him is bitter, despairing. “He can. He  _ did _ .” The final, terrible blow.  _ Am I really such a disappointment to you, Papa? _ “Unless I become a married man, all of  _ this  _ is impossible. The only thing I can do is watch as the Langham dies slowly.”

And there it is; the dream killed before it can even take form.

“Shit.” 

Tony toys with his coffee cup, hooks a finger through the handle and spins it in a slow revolution on the desktop. “I did entertain, briefly, the notion of conceding -- we are on uncertain ground right now and I would not risk the livelihoods of my staff over this.”

It kills Adam to imagine it; Tony throwing away his happiness for the Langham.

“I might have asked Kaitlin,” Tony admits and Adam thinks of the dark-eyed, smirking redhead who had handed him his bags. “She is lovely, and as invested in this place as I am. But I would not subject her to such a thing, not even for the sake of the Langham. And,” he risks the saddest, most pitiful of smiles. “I think her wife might take offense.”

Adam chuckles, the way Tony had hoped. A bit of levity, they can move on from this -- from discussing Tony’s shame.

But then the realization dawns slowly in Adam’s eyes.

“You said  _ legally-binding _ .”

“Yes.” Tony hesitates, uneasy.

“So,” Adam uncrosses his legs, both feet planted firmly on the floor when he leans forward, certain he has found the way out of this. “That’s a little different from having to marry a woman, right? I mean, gay marriage is legal now…”

Tony grimaces. There is so much unfairness in all of it. “Yes, I had considered that. When my father wrote these papers he did not expect such a thing would come to pass. But still, to marry for such a reason, to… I had hoped --” His throat constricts, choking on the words.

To find the right partner. To be loved.

But it is impossible. He is still in Adam’s thrall, still so deeply and uselessly in love, and they do not have another five years for him to piece his heart together, to find someone else. 

And Adam has gone still, considering the ramifications of it all -- Tony and the hard-hearted parting shot from his father, the Langham and all his bright, madcap hopes…

It is really no decision at all.

“Let’s get married.”

Tony’s jaw drops open -- a baffled stutter-start of protests escaping before he bursts out, disbelieving, “you are crazy.”

But Adam is warming to the idea; the perfect, simple solution. “C’mon,” he insists, eyes warm and gleaming. “We sign a thing down at the courthouse, we get it annulled in a few years, and in the meantime we turn this place into the greatest restaurant in Europe.”

“I don't…” Tony’s hands shake, sloshing the dregs of coffee in his cup. “Adam, you cannot be serious…”

“As a heart attack.”

“But you're not…”  _ gay. _

_ In love with me. _

Adam shrugs. “So what? I’m committed to this, Tony -- to getting that third star -- and there's no one else I'd rather do it with. So we have to get fake-married to make it happen. I've done worse for less.”

And that  _ kills _ Tony. 

Fake-married.

Nothing more than a charade for the solicitors.

“Oh,  _ charming _ ” Tony snarls. “You do not need to suggest -- if the idea of feigning marriage to me is such a hardship --”  _ Why would you even offer? _

“Tony, that's not what I meant,:” Adam insists, exasperated. “I’m just saying there's worse things than a marriage of convenience that'll benefit us  _ both. _ ”

And it may be a great deal more pain than benefit for Tony, but still...

“You would really do this?”

“Why not?”

Tony could list a million and one reasons  _ why not _ , and yet he cannot help but think that it could work. That he will acquiesce to Adam Jones and his whims once again and he will take whatever the man offers.

“Hm.” He sits back, fixes Adam with sharp ochre eyes and lifts a sardonic eyebrow. “And they said it would be the gays who ruin the sanctity of marriage -- they did not count on Adam Jones with a plan.” It is the faintest hint of a smile that plays around the corners of his lips, but it is something.

“I guess not” Adam hums, all smiling eyes and satisfaction. “So, what d’you say?  _ I do? _ ”

Tony’s voice quavers. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Which is how they find themselves gathering up all the necessary documents to pay a visit to City Hall. Tony bounces his knee, jittering and nervous as they fill out marriage certificates, applications, signing their names over and over again.

It happens so quickly.

Suddenly they are before the judge with only the clerk and a wearied barrister to witness, swearing to love and honor one another and cherish one another. And Tony is sick with it, his heart swollen in his throat -- devastated, and still thrilling to see his name written beside Adam’s on the papers.

Someone has taken a whisk and stirred his brains to slurry. He is numb, hardly able to hear the damning words -- the vows they are speaking -- hardly able to process any of it. Impossible. Impossible, and yet it is happening.

“Are you, Adam Benjamin Jones, free lawfully to marry Antonio César Balerdi?”

Adam -- stoic, solemn. “I am.”

“And are you, Antonio César Balerdi, free lawfully to marry Adam Benjamin Jones?”

He is dying inside, his heart withering and turning to dust. “I am.”

It is all he ever wanted, and he wants to sink into the floor. To weep. Everything is completely and utterly wrong.

Tony cannot manage to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and Adam has no right to look at him with such wry fondness. Not when this is all a lie.

“I take you, Tony Balerdi, to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

It will kill him.

“I take thee… Adam Jones…” He cannot breathe. It hurts too much. “I take thee to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

That is all it takes. They are married.

As if that isn’t enough, Adam manages to make it a hundred times worse, leaning in to brush a perfunctory, feather-light kiss against the curve of Tony’s cheek.

He has no idea how he manages it, but somehow Tony remains composed, his lips drawn into a tight line to avoid confessing anything, doing anything foolish. And somehow they make it out of the courthouse and into the sunshine and he takes a moment to remember how to breathe while Adam tries to hail a cab.

“Let’s walk” Tony insists. He cannot be in a small space, enclosed, with Adam right now -- not when he feels like he might go to pieces any second. “Enjoy the air.”

The look Adam levels his way feels far too knowing. “Okay…”

Neither one of them dares speak, making their way slowly along the streets.

Eventually, it is Adam who breaks the silence. “So,” he asks “what now?”

Tony can only offer a bitter shrug. “Nothing changes.” Despite how much he might wish. “I will meet with the solicitors, begin the process of petitioning for the funds to renovate the Langham, and I will draw up your contract.”

They descend back into silence.

“I feel like I should hold your hand or somethin’,” Adam confesses at last, strangely bashful. “I mean, we’re married now.”

In agony, Tony whispers “please don’t.”

 

* * *

 

Nothing changes, and yet everything is different.

Things move quickly after the marriage license is signed; true to his word, Tony pours every spare minute into the necessary paperwork, the emails and endless phone calls to secure the funds for their castle in the air. There are plans to draw up, budgets to organize, a rotation of contractors to meet with and decisions to make.

Max gets out of jail. Michel gets on board. Adam gets himself a  _ chef de partie  _ and an apprentice -- Helene with her scrappy look and unwillingness to take shit from anyone, David a quick study and eager to please.

And there are the meetings. The Balerdi estate’s solicitors -- his father’s old guard. And Adam comes along to put his signature to the paperwork, to listen and interject every-so-often as the terms are ironed out and new contracts hammered together. He watches as Tony diminishes under the weight of the disapproving stares, self-conscious and feeling like a chastised little boy all over again.

“You know,” says the solicitor, steepling his fingers with a cool stare at each of them in turn. “Your father would not have --”

“I do not care what my father would or would not think,” Tony snaps. “He is dead. The marriage is legal, suiting the terms of his will, and that is all that matters.” And he pushes their marriage license across the desk, the terrible damning thing with their names written together in holy matrimony. He dies a bit inside every time he has to see the thing, knowing that there is no real meaning to it. 

In the chair beside him Adam shifts, reaching across the gap to peel Tony’s fingers from the arm of the chair -- all white knuckles and sweaty palms -- twining their hands together. He feels the pulse jump in Tony’s slender wrist, leveling a bland stare at the solicitors and daring them to comment.

There is nothing more said about it. Tony does not realize Adam is still holding his hand until they leave the executor’s office -- they are halfway down the street before he comes back to himself, aware of the warmth of Adam’s hand, the strength of his fingers, and he pulls away as though he has been burned.

_ Idiot. _

The renovations will take the better part of six months. The old dining room is torn down, the original kitchen gutted, and in the months it takes, they remain hyper-aware of one another. They are married and neither one of them acknowledges it, unsure how to approach the thing that exists so awkwardly between them.

Occasionally, when they crowd together side by side over the plans, their hands touch; a skim of fingertips over the back of a wrist. When Tony has carved out a small corner of office space for himself, squished in among all the boxes and the clutter, Adam brushes the plaster dust from his shoulder, leaning behind him to examine the new design models on the computer screen. He is all friendly, playful touches and every bit of contact makes Tony’s skin  _ burn _ . 

He feels like a live wire, electrified and shot-through with adrenaline and self-loathing and guilt. It is a terrible thing, this lie that he has built around himself -- in love and play-acting at friendship and married, pretending none of it matters when the truth is that it is killing him.

But still Tony, arriving with the first light of dawn, finds himself bringing an extra thermos of coffee for Adam. And, in between testing recipes, when Tony is completely absorbed in the technical work of managing a hotel and restaurant, when Adam cooking with Max on the little, temporary camp stoves, he slips lunch onto Tony’s desk, ruffles his hair.

Adam’s world revolves around the two intersecting points of focus.

The Langham, and Tony.

He oversees every detail down to the most minute specifications of the new kitchen’s layout; every cabinet and fixture and appliance passes through his inspection. And all the while, Tony is on the periphery, caught at the edges of his thoughts. He is a fixed point amid the ever-changing chaos in his pristine suits, sporting a hard hat and engaged in intense discussion with their contractors.

And it isn’t something that Adam can quite put into words, but he has  _ missed _ this. Has missed Tony and all his passion, his stubborn fastidiousness and quiet humor. And the thought remains branded into the back of his mind -- they are married.

He is crowded up beside Max amid the fluttering plastic sheets, power tools whining and workmen pounding away all around them, trying to balance the strength of the tarragon simmering on the stove burner.

Max takes the chance to nudge Adam, their conversation muffled by the noise of construction. “How’d you manage to pull all this off?”

Adam shrugs, stirs in a sprinkling of garlic. “He wants the restaurant to succeed, I want the third star.”

“Hm.” Max snorts, clearly unimpressed with this answer. “That kid was a fucking nightmare after you disappeared.” None of them blamed Tony for it, either. His infatuation with Adam had really been no secret at all for anyone with a working pair of eyes. “I mean, you go batshit crazy in Paris, fuck off to who-knows-where for the better part of five years, and all of a sudden you’re back and he’s renovating this whole restaurant for you to cook?” Max shakes his head, unable to fathom it. “The hell did you say to him?”

Adam turns his attention to the oil popping in the saucepan so that Max does not see his face when he offers the admission, quiet and off-handed. “I married him.”

“ _ Shit _ .” And whatever Max had been expecting it wasn't  _ that _ . He shakes the sting of a fresh burn from his hand, wide-eyed. “You  _ what  _ \--?!”

“It’s no big deal,” Adam says, carefully nonchalant. “He needed to be legally married to access the funds for the renovation, so I offered.”

“Really?” Max gives him a slow look up and down, clearly stunned. “I didn’t think you were… that way.”

It is not something Adam has ever been inclined to acknowledge, not when being queer might risk his chances at success. And, even after he had discovered that a quarter of the  _ commis _ had been some flavor of not-straight at Jean Luc's, after discovering Tony -- out and quietly defiant -- it had been three years in their company and there had really never been a good point in mentioning it. Now, Adam shrugs again. “I’m both kind of ways, if you take my meaning. Not that it’s any of your goddamn business.”

Looking out across the chaos of the half-completed dining room, all plastic tarps and rough drywall, his eyes are automatically drawn to Tony’s familiar form. The maitre d’ has divested himself of jacket and tie, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, and -- armed with a tape measure -- he paces from one corner of the space to another, crouching to report each measurement to the contractor on the other end of the tape.

Adam can barely tear his eyes away from the line of his spine, the inches of bare forearm and vulnerable shoulders.

“Besides,” he says with the faintest wobble around the edges of his words. “It’s just on paper, it’s not like I’m fucking him or anything.”

He finds himself lingering on the notion, though, it in the dark, quiet hours of the night; half-dreaming of bright eyes and a slim frame soft and pliant in his arms. Lulled to sleep by the rocking of their bodies in his imagination, woken by the soft brush of phantom kisses.

_ It’s not a big deal _ .

Tony hears every word, and each strikes a blow between his ribs, echoing brutal and terrible in the confines of his chest.

_ It’s not like I’m fucking him or anything. _

He cannot keep lying.

 

* * *

 

He hides from Adam, as much as he is able to, avoids him at every opportunity. But, of course, Adam Jones is not easily deterred. 

Pacing the wine racks in the Langham’s cellar, armed with a clipboard and an encyclopedic knowledge of their stock, Tony compiles half a dozen lists -- all of the red wines, white wines, the rosé, the different liquors on offer. He sorts through pairings, considering the beginnings of Adam’s new menu and how and what combinations will suit best.

The heavy tread of footsteps on the stair -- “Hey, Tones. You down here?” -- draws the line of his shoulders tight, a brief warning before Adam appears before him in the dim light.

Unwilling to turn around, to look Adam in the eye, Tony examines the wine bottles and swallows down the knot that rises in his throat, plucking a bottle from the rack to examine its label, testing the weight in his hand.

“You know,” he says and his voice is thick with heartache. “I’m thinking the, uh… the ‘89 Chateau Angelus with the pigeon.”

_ It’s just on paper, it’s not like I’m fucking him or anything. _

His eyes sting. He can’t do this -- not now.

“Yeah” Adam agrees, distracted. He shifts his weight, eyes raking Tony up and down. “Here, try this.”

Tony risks turning, glancing up just enough that the light catches the miserable contours of his face as he reaches for the offered glass.

“Hey…” Adam’s voice goes instantly soft, gentle and careful at the edges. “You okay?”

No. Not at all. He is the furthest thing from ‘okay’ -- and yet Tony ducks his head and says quietly “I’m fine.”

Adam sets aside the tasting glass -- leek and tarragon soup -- all his attention focused instead on the damp shine of Tony’s eyes, the way he shrinks away from him, spine curving, arms folded in a tight knot of shame. He slips a forefinger beneath Tony’s chin, tilting his face gently upward. Appraising. “Yeah,” he proclaims after a moment, when Tony’s eyes slide away again. “That face is the absolute picture of ‘fine’. What is it?”

Tony shakes his head. “I can’t.” And the dull, steady ache in the confines of his chest seems to swell against his breastbone, all anguish and guilt and hopeless defeat. It will crack him apart, tear him open at the seams -- the confession spilling out of him.

There are warm, heavy hands on his shoulders, Adam so gentle that it  _ hurts _ when he leans down to try and catch Tony’s eye. “Can’t what?”

“ _ Pretend _ , Adam.” Tony crumbles. The tears spill over, his voice quavering with emotion; half-rage and half-anguish. He should never have allowed it to get this far. Should never have let himself believe that it could work, that he could pretend not to love Adam Jones. “I cannot keep pretending that it does not matter. This charade, you do not understand, it is  _ killing me.  _ To know that it means nothing to you, that you do not love me --”

Anything else -- any protest, apology, plea -- is cut off. Silenced by the crush of Adam’s mouth; a messy, burning kiss that knocks Tony backward, sends him stumbling against the wine casks. And Adam holds him tight, the two of them pressed so close together, kissing away the soft cry that slips from Tony’s shocked and trembling mouth.

He is shivering, all adrenaline-shock and overwhelming wonder, everything damp and fragile between them when Adam pulls away just enough to let him breathe. Tony is frozen, paralyzed in Adam’s arms, his breath hitching -- half-sobbing and frightened and hopeful.

_ Impossible. _

“I don’t…” Language seems entirely beyond him, the world shrunk down to the sensation of  _ Adam _ ; the tingle of his lips, the ghost of stubble scratches on his cheeks. “Adam. What --?”

Somehow, Adam seems just as stunned as Tony, his blue eyes wide. Breathless. “I don’t know,” he admits, reaching up to smooth the tears from Tony’s face. He offers a tender smile, lopsided and warm. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“You…?”

“Yeah.” Adam traces the pad of his thumb along the swell of Tony’s soft lower lip. “Yeah, I love you.” And the moment he says it, he knows the words ring true. “God, Tony. I love you so much.” Tony is laughing. Sobbing. His eyes over-bright and brilliant, all dimples and amazement; and Adam ducks down, steals another kiss against his perfect, crooked mouth.

* * *

Adam has grand ideas, brilliant plans, but it is only thanks to Kaitlin that he manages to time it all so perfectly. He rallies the kitchen and she swears the waitstaff to secrecy.

It is the day before the reopening.  _ Adam Jones at the Langham. _

The dining room is swept, dusted, and polished to perfection. The kitchen is all gleaming chrome and clean white surfaces exactly to Adam’s specifications. And -- arriving in the early, pre-dawn hours -- they get to work.

Kaitlin oversees the flower arrangements scattered across the tables; creamy primroses and great, unfurling purple peonies. There are garlands hung and ribbons tied and Adam pipes buttercream rosettes to keep his hands steady, to quell the anxiety that sings along his nerves, until Michel pronounces it -- “fifteen minutes, chef.”

Then there is only sweaty palms and carefully considered words recited under his breath. Max tutting as he straightens the bow-tie beneath Adam’s chin, Helene and David moving in synchronous, organized chaos, and Adam is aware of the slow stillness that settles over him. A calm, quiet certainty.

He traces the outlines in his pocket; a slender pair of circles.

At ten minutes, he passes off the rings and Kaitlin heads for the front door to wait for Tony.

Five minutes, and Adam is pacing the dining room, shaking the nerves out through his fingertips, and his heart has never beat so fast, he has never been so exhilarated and so utterly terrified all at once. Even at nineteen-years-old, standing before Jean Luc and fighting for a place in the kitchens, he had never been so sick with anxiety. 

The waitstaff, pressed and polished in their neat black uniforms, rock back and forth on their heels. Helene, smart in her white chef’s jacket, looks him up and down with a grin. “Nervous?”

“Nervous? Me?” Adam’s voice pitches slightly too high to be believable, his eyes darting everywhere -- the lilac ribbons, the plumes of flowers and starched white tablecloths, and the life’s blood of the Langham all assembled and waiting. “I never get nervous.”

Her eyes crinkle, delighted. “Wedding day jitters are to be expected, you know.”

Adam tugs at his bow-tie. “I’m not jittery.”

There is a murmur through their little assembly. Adam catches the whispered “ _ he’s here _ ” and then all he can see is Tony, silhouetted in the doorway all wide-eyed and wondering in pale grey twill with the lavender silk tie that Adam had left hanging from the bathroom door with a note --  _ wear me today! _

He is beautiful.

“Adam?” Tony’s voice is soft, awestruck. “I don’t understand -- what is all this?”

“Well,” there is a knot of emotion that rises in Adam’s throat. “I know we’re already married, but I thought maybe we should do it the right way.”

“Oh.” Tony sways on his feet, too stunned to properly speak. “ _ Oh _ .  _ Adam. _ ” His eyes wander over the dining room, the exquisite decorations, their respective teams gathered and all holding their breath. And Adam -- bright-eyed and stunning in his black tuxedo. Tony blushes, tears welling in his eyes.  _ This is happening. This is real. _ He manages a watery, uncertain laugh. “I fear I am a little under-dressed.”

Adam beams. “You look great, Tones.”

And Michel, taking his cue, steps forward to offer Adam the slim silver band.

He almost doesn’t notice, they are so entirely wrapped up in one another in this moment. And Adam had had a whole plan, had written and re-written his vows, but now -- none of it matters. It is just Tony and Adam and he  _ loves  _ him.

Adam sinks to one knee, taking Tony’s hand in his own.

Tony draws a deep, shuddering breath, tears welling in glossy clumps on his lower lashes.

This is nothing like the spur-of-the-moment proposal in the back office, Adam putting the pieces together and tossing out a suggestion over coffee as though it were nothing more than a means to and end. Now, it means something.

“Antonio César Balerdi,” and what a beautiful thing, to have that name roll of his tongue and sound so warm, Adam looking up at him with his crystalline eyes shining. “I told you, in this restaurant, everything is possible. With  _ you _ everything is possible. And I know I already asked you once, but this time I wanted to ask you and really mean it.”

Tony can’t help it. Unable to stem the flood of emotion, he cries openly even as a smile like sunshine dawns over his face.

“Will you marry me?”

The answer is barely audible. “ _ Of course. _ ”

Adam stands, slipping the ring onto Tony’s trembling finger. It is just slightly too big, will need resizing later. But, in this moment, there is nothing more perfect. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

And Kaitlin, grinning from ear-to-ear, reveals the second ring in her open hand, whispers “congratulations, boss” when Tony plucks the ring from her palm with numb fingers.

Tony studies the silver band. He knows that, ever the consummate chef, it will not last long on Adam’s ring finger -- instead will find its place on the chain around Adam’s neck. For know, he slips it over the scarred, knobby knuckles, his hands and voice shaking. “With this ring… I thee wed.”

Adam leans in, whispers “properly, this time” and seals it all with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Adam’s middle name is “Benjamin” because Bradley Cooper has played a “Ben” several times -- I would have used his middle name “Charles” but it doesn’t have a very good ring to it. César is one of Dan’s middle names.


End file.
